Ramblings from the Desert

The man who trades freedom for security does not deserve nor will he ever receive either. ~Benjamin Franklin

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Location: New Mexico

Author of the urban fantasy novel, The Music of Chaos, and the paranormal romance, The Canvas Thief.

Friday, February 24, 2006

Beer And Babes

Whenever a white couple adopts an Asian baby girl, they give her a nice, bland name like Kaitlin or Meghan.

I'm gonna adopt an Asian baby and give her a Black name and raise her speaking Spanish. On the first day of school, the teacher will call roll and say, "LaToya Kirby."

A cute little Asian girl will stand up and say, "Que?"

My little multi-cultural angel.
I've heard that, when in a foreign country, rather than admitting to being an American--because everyone supposedly hates Americans--one should say they are Canadian, because Canadians are supposedly liked by everyone.

Huh. The way I see it, Canadians are too closely affiliated with Americans and the British.

When asked, I'm gonna be Mexican. Nobody knows what the Mexican position on anything is, including the Mexicans.

If actually busted in my lie, I can always say, "Eh, oh? I meant New Mexican."
Helicopters were circling our fair village last night. Nope, it wasn't another visit from the Preznit. It was a police situation. The helicopters, however, weren't law enforcement, they were representatives of the television news.

Last night's incident was a police-involved shooting that took place in a far flung corner of our little municipality. Not exactly, "news I need to know" or anything that affected me. The whole incident amounted to no more than three helicopters circling over an otherwise quiet neighborhood, shooting footage of three parked police cars.

You'd have thought they were covering the shooting of President Kennedy--the Grassy Knoll, reinacted in dusty New Mexico. Later, each television station would extoll its virtues. "We're on the scene, tracking the news you need to know. LATE BREAKING! Late breaking!"

Most local, "late breaking" news takes this form. Some dipshit gets boozed up and pulls a gun. Typical scenario: domestic violence run amuck. Sort of. That is, if you can run amuck in your own house. Basically, the perp downs a couple of six packs of Bud, slaps the wife around a bit, she calls the cops, he waves a gun at the cops and the whole mess devolves into a sixteen-hour SWAT situation.

The Local Media goes apeshit.

"We are live at the scene, right now," says perky, over-earnest reporter. About a block behind her, we can see a few flashy police lights. "Police say the man has a gun and is unwilling to come out."

Me: "Well, duh. I wouldn't come out either. One gun versus the cops with many guns and oh-so-sturdy bulletproof vests. And why's that cop so fat? Yeesh, buddy, lay off the Krispy Kremes."

This goes on for hours, with the local media interrupting regular programming to tell me that Six-Pack Pablo is still drunk and on the loose in his trailer home. Why the SWAT team, anyway? I gay-ron-tee, Pablo will be leaving home soon, the instant he runs out of beer Just sit a couple of cops outside and wait till he wobbles out on a beer run.

Eventually, a shiny little light bulb comes on over one of the highly-trained SWAT officer's head. "Tear gas." In goes the tear gas, out come Pablo in his oh-so-appropriate, stained, wife beater shirt and dirty jeans.

All this fuss over a man whose sole contribution to society is keeping Budweiser in business and occasionally showing up, drunk, at his construction job. (This guy, he's the reason the walls in your new house aren't plumb.)

Meanwhile, City Hall is rife with corruption, the local schools are a study in waste, but covering real stories takes work.

We never found out what the deal was with the "police involved shooting." This morning the media was chasing the latest late breaking story--a burglar on the run.
Not quite as whoozy as yesterday, so I think I got around to everyone's blog today. I know, I still need to update my links...le sigh.

Busy writing my romance novel. Having fun being all...girly. In typical Kirby fashion, my hero is a master burglar, because I can't write squeeky clean boys.

Hope your Friday's shaping up well.



Graphics and Content Copyright © Patricia Kirby 2005